A Daughter's Moral Code

I look at the man who raised me, who clothed me, who had been my entire world and I feel the tears falling when I ask, “Why?” He looks at me and then at the knife in his hands, the blood encasing the handle and his hand as if to keep him attached to his crime, to the sin he just committed. “Honey, I didn’t, I didn’t have a choice. It was either him or us!” His voice rises to a shout, and I flinch, and he notices and takes a step forward. “Honey please,” he says, and now I see the tears falling down his face, “You must believe me. It had to be done, I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Michelle.” I suddenly notice how close to me he is, how he had been slowly covering the distance between us and I start to walk back, each step feeling like it is taking longer and longer. I glance behind me at the door and suddenly I hear metal clatter against rotting wood and the pounding of footsteps rushing towards me and I feel his grip on my arms. I spin towards him, and I can see the sadness, trails of tears and snot running snail trails into his brown beard, and I feel my heart go out to him but then I glance at my arms and see the blood staining my arms and I shove him as hard as I can. He stumbles away and trips over something, the dead man trying to get his final revenge, and I hear him slam into the floor as I turn around and run towards the door. I fling the door open and run into the corridor, slamming into the wall opposite and feeling my head pound from the sudden onslaught. I quickly push off the wall and run down the hall, seeing faint silhouettes of hanging frames on beige walls rush by me as I sprint down the hall and suddenly reach the stairs, my feet playing a marching tune on the old wood as I reach the landing and burst out the front door.

The sun illuminates the street and the wrecked cars that litter the road, weeds and anything with roots growing on and through the cars, as if trying to hide it piece by piece. I quickly look around, trying to decide on a direction before running left across the street, trying not to trip over the cracks and gorges that have split the ground like a jigsaw. I run down the street, my lungs burning from the effort. I quickly climb through a shattered window into an abandoned house, the crunch of glass under my shoes, and try to listen over the sounds of my heavy breathing. I hear boots thumping against the broken tarmac outside and I force myself to stop breathing, convinced that the sound will reach him, and he’ll find me. I hear him out there, running back and forth, getting closer and farther with each pass he makes. I close my eyes and hope that he won’t find me, that he’ll give up and leave and take his crime with him. I can’t bring myself to see him again. I can’t look at him the same way I once did.

 I remember him as he used to be, kind but firm, a stereotypical father figure if there ever was one. That was before everything went to shit and the world began to change around me, around us. Ever since mum died…. Suddenly I realise I don’t hear movement outside and I carefully peek through the broken window, a fractured world perceived through broken glass. He’s standing in the middle of the street and staring at the sky. I take a good look at him while he stands there to see if I can find something to remind me that he hasn’t changed. He was wearing his worker overalls when he came home that day, a beautiful red that’s turned brown and ripped from time. I look at the back of his head, thankful that I can’t see his face from this angle, and I suddenly notice the long streaks of grey going through his once pure black hair. When did he get so old? He moves suddenly and I flinch, my foot knocking aside the glass littering the floor and he turns around and sees me there. I get trapped by his gaze, a deer in headlights caught with no way out in sight. He takes a step forward, I take a step back, the two of us caught in a sick dance until I feel my back touch against the wall.

“Michelle. Why are you running away from me?” He’s choking back his tears while he looks at me. I can see it in him, the struggle with trying not to break down into tears.

“You killed him. You killed that man for what? We could’ve just left; everything would have been fine. You’re a murderer.” I spit that last word at him like it could do damage, like it could get him to get away from me.

“But I had to. Why don’t you understand that? You don’t know what he was going to do, whether he would’ve hurt us, hurt you. It was either him or us and I chose us!” Once again, he’s shouting his excuses as if it’ll make me believe him.

“Please,” and now he’s on his knees and grabbing onto my shoulders. I can feel his weight in those hands and wonder if he’s seconds from falling and never getting up again. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t think it was necessary. You just must trust me. Michelle,” and now he’s looking me in the eyes, “could you please trust me?”

I want to trust him. I really, really do want to trust him. With everything else gone to shit, he’s been the only constant in my life up to this point and I want it to stay like that. But again, I can feel the drying blood on his fingers, how it soaks through my jumper, how the smell of rust, the smell of blood just oozes from him. The man I knew before all this happened isn’t kneeling in front of me. That man died the second he picked up that knife.

“OK,” I say, and I stare back into his eyes and see hope start to blossom, “I’ll trust you.”

“Oh, my darling Michelle.” He starts to reach his arms around me, like he’s done a hundred times before.

“As soon as you tell me you know for a hundred percent that that man was going to hurt us.”

His arms stop in their tracks and hope is nowhere in sight now.

“Michelle please.”

“Say it.”

Please say it.

“You just have to trust me.”

“Say you know for a fact that was the case.”

Please make me believe you.

“Michelle, you must trust me here.

“Stop saying I have to trust you and say it!”

Dad…

“I can’t ok! I can’t fucking say for a fact that I know! But what I’m saying is that you must trust that I had the right intentions.” There’s pleading in his voice now, as if he knows that he’s lost me. I don’t say anything, I don’t look at him. I slowly raise my hands and gently release his grip on me, grabbing his wrists so as not to touch the blood. And he lets me. His arms fall limply by his sides like the final sign of defeat as I let them go and walk around him to the entrance. I stop by the space where the doors used to be, and I look at his back and I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. But then I smell the rust in the air, and I turn back around and walk outside into the now-setting sun. And I hope I never see my father again. 

The sun is shining off the cars that are still left standing as I walk down what used to be a road. I don’t know why I started thinking about my dad all of a sudden, it seems to be happening more and more lately and I can’t stand it. I kick a stone down the road, watching it leap and jump off the bumps and cracks of the road, before slamming into a car, causing a bang to echo through the air. I’m behind a car before I can fully register the noise, my breathing low and calm as I listen to the silence. A moment passes and I breathe out a sigh as I lean against the rusting car chassis. “Why am I so on edge lately? It doesn’t make sense.” I get slowly and stretch, my joints cracking as I stretch them to their limits. I fill my lungs with freezing air and stare down the road in front of me. I don’t know exactly where I am going. It’s been a few months since I left Dad back in that shop and ever since I’ve just been moving from one place to the next. I lower the bag off my back and take out the map that I’d found a few days back and lay it out on the boot of the car. I trace my finger along the road that I think I’m following until I get to where I should be. I then look further up the road, and I see that I’ll be coming up to a town soon. I sigh again before folding back up the map and sliding it back into the bag. I take out a bag of preserved jerky and start walking again, slipping back on the bag as I go. “One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer…,” I hum to myself as my feet bring me somewhere that my brain can’t seem to figure out.

“The town was. Closer on the map,” I wheeze as I continue to trek along a never-ending landscape of burnt-out cars, cracked tarmac, and glass shards. I can feel the setting sun against my neck, and I walk forwards, desperate for somewhere to stop. I had finally stopped singing when I had to go up to four thousand bottles of beer, and ever since it’s been nothing but me and my thoughts. If I had to guess, I had stopped at that car about five hours ago and even now I still have this weird sense of panic in my chest, as if something bad is going to happen any second. I inhale a deep breath and look to the right of me, at the trees that line the side of the road, like some kind of borderline. The leaves were starting to fall off the branches, colouring the ground rust-red and sickly yellow. All the walking has just about destroyed my shoes and I can feel every stone and sharp edge poking at me through the soles. I look ahead of me when suddenly I see it. A petrol station resting on the side of the road. Tears almost spill out of my eyes, and I pump my fists in the air and hurry to the front door. As I get closer to the door, I can see the cracks and holes lining the windows, the roots that have taken hold of the walls and have begun their ascent up to the roof. I slowly make my way up to one of the windows and peek inside, caution making me untrustworthy of the act of good luck. The sun at my back sends my shadow stretching to the back wall of the shop, while also materialising the dust mites that sluggishly move through the air. Racks that used to hold assorted road trip snacks fill the main space of the station. To the left of the racks is the main counter where all the registers are. I take another look through the window, slowly scanning the space for anything out of the ordinary. I nod to myself, satisfied enough to walk to the door and slowly push it open, the sound of metal scraping against metal ruining the almost reverential silence of the space. My footsteps echo off the floor as I walk inside, trying to remember how long it has been since I’ve been inside something as normal as a petrol station. I quickly take a look around, checking around corners and behind the counter for anything that I might’ve missed. The place is safe enough, I think, as I take off my bag and sit it on top of the counter beside a register. It’s then I notice the door behind the counter on the far right wall.

I hadn’t seen it at first because the fading light hadn’t reached that far inside. I look around and grab the first thing I see, a metal pole that had probably been the door handle on this side. I walk towards the door and grip the handle. I take a deep breath and quickly swing the door open, stepping back as I do so with my improvised weapon held high above my head. The open door reveals nothing but storage boxes and more shelves. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding and walk back to the counter to grab my bag then walk back and enter the storage room, closing the door behind me. I drop my bag to the floor and begin to rip apart old cardboard boxes and lay them on the floor, some of the cardboard rotting and falling apart in my hands. I lay down on my makeshift mattress and use my bag as a pillow while I stare up at the oppressive darkness of the ceiling. Thoughts of my dad kissing my forehead goodnight invade my brain and I stifle my cries as I lay down to sleep.